Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori
by Pudupudu
Summary: House/Wilson set in WWI: Greg House is a sarcastic and prank loving English medical student who, along with the slightly more sensible James Wilson is having ‘a fine time, thank you very much’. This all looks set to change, however, as war is declared...
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: **This will be a **SLASH** fic so if you don't like the idea, don't read

**Summary: **It's 1914 and Greg House is a sarcastic and prank loving medical student who, along with the (slightly) more sensible younger student James Wilson is having 'a fine time thank you very much'. This all looks set to change, however, as war is declared and the young men are forced into a whirlwind of circumstances beyond their control...

**Notes: **this will later turn into a crossover with Pat Barker's 'Regeneration Trilogy' but no one needs to actually know anything about it in order for it to make sense. This story doesn't have a beta so any mistakes are mine and I really ought to be revising... Let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer: **don't own House, didn't start the First World War

"The Oxford Union," Greg House muttered under his breath, "cultivator of imbeciles since 1823." The only man within earshot of this was one James Wilson who was at this moment sweeping a floppy lock of hair away from his eyes in order to see his friend as he grinned back at him wryly: "look on the bright side, at least your father will be pleased." As soon as the last word had left his lips he found himself ducking as a mortar board sailed towards his head with deadly intent. When he next looked up it was to see that House had turned on his heel, stalking off in a flurry of gown and suit. With grin still fixed Wilson picked up House's board along with his own and ran after him, silently cursing his friend's long-legged stride.

"Here" he said, handing back the mortar board and letting their hands brush with a lingering touch of apology, "you'll be rusticated if Higgins sees you without it on." Greg snorted- a sure sign that Wilson's misdeeds were forgiven- "Higgins would have me sent-down if he saw my top button undone. He's been looking for an excuse to punish me for years. Seriously, you hang one man's trousers from the top of a tower and they hunt you down for the rest of your life..." Now it was Wilson's turn to snort derisively "well, he might not have been quite so unhappy if he hadn't been _wearing_ the trousers when you happened to steal them," the younger man held up a hand in a silencing gesture as he saw that House was about to reply, "I know, I know- 'it's his own fault for sleeping on the job.'" Greg nodded, "quite so," but his triumphant expression soon turned grim as he remembered the verdict of the debate. "Besides, I think we all have bigger matters than rustication to worry about. Unless of course Higgins is a German, in which case he might as well shoot me now and save his fellow countrymen in France the effort."

Wilson feigned contemplation on the subject of Higgins's nationality for a moment before musing "I wouldn't put it past him." It had been meant as a joke but he was shocked to see that his friend looked genuinely morose. Snide, bad-tempered and malevolent were all expressions which one must come to expect from the famously prickly Gregory House, but Wilson- who knew the older student well- had never seen him so resigned. "Cheer up," he said, attempting to make his inflection as light as possible despite the genuine discomfiture he felt at his friend's demeanour, "you heard what they said- the war will be over by Christmas and we can all get back to worrying about oversleeping, under-performing and feigning deathly illness in order to avoid tutorials." They were nearing the entrance to Wilson's college but he was strangely unwilling to leave his friend right now and thus he walked straight past the porter's lodge, purposefully refraining from giving it a second glance. In his peripheral vision he could see Greg's raised eyebrow but neither of them passed comment on the fact that Wilson had, in effect, invited himself to spend the night in House's room.

"They're all fools," Greg stated as they walked along the High Street and Wilson didn't need to ask who _they_ were, "and you're a fool if you believe them. They can't possibly know when the war is going to end and as for their attitude that we'll all get through it alive..." House shuddered slightly, whether through cold or dread Wilson could not tell. "An 'Oxford education' might grant us a certain degree of privilege but it does not make us bullet proof. They honestly believe that this thing is going to end in one big cavalry charge... Idiots!" Greg cursed loudly, picking up a stone and hurling it angrily into the river, upsetting its calmly reflective sheen as it flowed under Magdalen Bridge. Wilson gazed out into the twilight horizon, reflecting upon his friend's words and feeling, for the first time since war had been declared, afraid for them both. "You... you really think that this war is going to be different?" Greg looked into Wilson's eyes, brown pools that failed miserably in any attempt he might make to disguise his emotions, and he almost felt guilty for upsetting his naive dreams. _Almost_. "I know so. The artillery is far more powerful than it once was. They have machine guns, grenades and God knows what else. You're a medical student, James, it doesn't take any leap of imagination to conceive the effects of gun fire on flesh." Suddenly exhausted he took one look at Wilson's expression- that of a spaniel that had just been kicked- and sighed, relenting slightly for probably the first time in his life "come on, it's getting late."

Having reached his room House flung off his robe and threw it to the ground to further add to the disarray of books and clothes before loosening his hated tie. Wilson removed his own gown rather more carefully, almost reverently, and House looked at him fondly when he knew he wasn't looking. Poor, innocent Jimmy. He had been at Oxford for almost a year and still he had a tendency to wander around like a bewildered spectre, taking long glances at spires and libraries as if he feared that they would slip away. From a family of Jewish immigrants he had fully expected to go through his life downtrodden and marginalised just as his ancestors had before him and yet here he was, a medical student at the most prestigious university in the Western World. House, however, was from a far more traditional background and he loathed every reminder of it, rebelling at every occasion against his father's dictatorial regime. And yet now... now he would have to become everything he had spent a lifetime loathing; he would be forced to throw away the degree he had fought so hard to come so far with and become his father. God, how he hated the military!

He was so caught up in his maudlin reflections that he didn't notice that Wilson was speaking to him "...you weren't the only one." He glanced up in confusion and Wilson repeated what he had said, "to vote against the motion. You weren't the only one who disagreed that 'we should fight for King and Country.'" That had been their reason for attending the Union that night- the big debate- should the learned men of Oxford abandon the cloistered conditions to which they had become accustomed and join the war. The motion had carried; it would now be considered shameful if any man who was able did not rise to the challenge. _They think this is a game_, House had thought, _but this isn't rugby or rowing. The penalty for losing is not to take 'a bit of a wigging' from one's friends. Why can't they see that?_ He had seen that, all too plainly, as rationally imagined horrors had flashed before his mind's eye. He grunted at Wilson's statement "yes, but the person in front of us objected on the principle that 'France is full of French people' which, while unfortunate, is hardly the crux of the matter." Wilson smiled at this though he had clearly lost some of his natural _joie de vivre _in the light of House's scientific reasoning. He had not, however, lost an ounce of his optimism and, placing a hand on House's shoulder he asserted with all the authority he possessed "we'll get through this. We'll sign up together and get through this together." House almost found himself believing him. _Almost_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings: **This will be a **SLASH** fic so if you don't like the idea, don't read

**Summary: **It's 1914 and Greg House is a sarcastic and prank loving medical student who, along with the (slightly) more sensible younger student James Wilson is having 'a fine time thank you very much'. This all looks set to change, however, as war is declared and the young men are forced into a whirlwind of circumstances beyond their control...

**Notes: **this will later turn into a crossover with Pat Barker's 'Regeneration Trilogy' but no one needs to actually know anything about it in order for it to make sense. This story doesn't have a beta so any mistakes are mine and I really ought to be revising... Let me know what you think!

Having signed up and been recruited, training began in earnest. House had, at first, been afraid that he would be shipped off into a regiment along with those with whom he had signed up, becoming part of what had come to be known as a 'Pal's Battalion'. The 'Oxy-Morons' as he had dubbed his fellow students, delighting in his pun (Wilson had rolled his eyes and left him to it), were no 'pals' of his and he was glad that they were all too pompous to ever consider accepting the position of 'Private Solider'. So it was, therefore, that Wilson became a Sergeant and second in command to House's position as Second-Lieutenant, a concept which equated to several minutes of amusement for House who delighted in Wilson's lack of military knowledge; he had asked questions such as "if you're the 'Second' Lieutenant, where's the first?"- which gained a snort from House- and, after Wilson had seen House's name and rank on paper for the first time, "if it's spelt 'L-I-E-U-T-E-N-A-N-T' why on earth do we pronounce it 'L-E-F-T-E-N-A-N-T?'" (After having asked the latter House refused to communicate with him for the rest of the day lest he find himself marred by the younger man's ignorance). Wilson had been equally bemused when they both came to be posted to command the 'West Yorkshire Light Infantry'; having never been further up the country than Islington, House had joked that Wilson might find himself suffering from vertigo in such Northern climbs.

Training began well and House found himself enjoying it despite his resolution to do quite the contrary. He never told James this, of course, but Wilson was himself taking silent delight in the fact that after days spent spearing bags of flour with bayonets House was less inclined to take his frustrations out on him. It was, however, House's tried and tested motto that when situations _appear_ too good to be true, they usually are and this was by no means proven to be false on this occasion. It was on a seemingly innocuous September afternoon that the world changed irrevocably in ways that even House's great mind had not been able to conceive. The day began with the usual mundane routine: out of bed at 4:30am ("the middle of the night" as House frequently whined when the Drill Commander was not listening), drills until 6:00 am then breakfast, cold tea and 'survival training' until lunch (though as far as House was concerned, the only chance any one of them had of getting through this war alive is if they gave up now and went home). There was nothing to set the 14th of September apart from any other day; the sun had risen as usual at its appointed hour, though Wilson had remarked- with far too much sentimentality for House's liking- that the sunrise had been particularly spectacular. And so it had, the flaming star ascending slowly into the horizon in a blaze of magenta and gold which commanding the sky's shift to bright cyan from watery blue. Once it had gained its supremacy over the skies the sun remained high and bright for the rest of the day, un-obscured and sweltering.

It was the sun, House was later to reflect, that had set the day's events into motion. Williams was having a hard time during rifle practice; feeling ravenous after the morning's activities he had gorged himself upon his meal and was now ruing having done so. To make matters worse, his fair complexion was no match for the sun and he was beginning to feel its effects in the rising heat of his flesh and the headache building in his temples. Still, he had never been one to fuss and, telling himself he was made of sterner stuff than this, he kept on shooting targets. "Aim. Fire!" the drill sergeant repeated over and over until Williams was convinced that it was merely the pure monotony of it that had caused his yells to fade to the level of a drone and then to a ringing in his ears and, wiping the sweat from his brow he felt somewhat confused to as to why he was perspiring so profusely when he suddenly felt so cold. He didn't have much time to reflect upon this matter, however, before he had pitched forward to the ground in a dead faint, loaded rifle still in hand.

House had been first to notice that something was amiss. Standing to the right of Williams he had noticed him begin to sway but had been slow to react as he presumed the lad was merely fatigued. When, however, the young Private had fainted he could do little but watch in horror as the rifle had hit the ground and fired under the combined force of soldier above and ground below. The resounding bang had sounded in his ears for many long seconds as time appeared to slow, House's eyes seeming to follow the bullet's trajectory as he stood, rigid with shock and powerless to stop it from reaching its target. Wilson. God, no, _Wilson! _Suddenly regaining control of his legs House had Wilson in his arms before the younger man could hit the ground. Cursing, he shouted for medical aid, medical training forgotten, and began to insult Wilson for his stupidity, hardly aware of the words as they tumbled out of his dry mouth, tongue stumbling over syllables as they seemed to swell within his mouth. Wilson blinked up at him with wide brown eyes, feeling somewhat surprised that he was the one to fall victim to friendly fire and not House (though technically House was a more likely recipient for _un_friendly fire). He was pleased that this was the case, however, and was about to tell House that he was fine- which was very nearly the truth since the bullet only appeared to have grazed his shoulder- but one look at House's face silenced his speech in its tracks.

His eyes, normally so guarded in their icy blue depths, now raged in tempestuous azure, his emotions plain for all to see if they should he have looked up from Wilson. They did not, however, stray from the face of his fallen friend and James saw a collage of such raw emotion that he was rendered mute: fear, anger, hurt, frustration and... a further expression that he couldn't quite place but he knew he had seen before... it was the look that mothers gave their children, that his own mother bestowed upon him; his was the countenance he had seen so frequently in train stations when young men had greeted young women and young women had greeted young men after long sojourns apart... but surely it couldn't be... it couldn't be _love_. "House," he croaked, voice raw not from pain but from some unbidden emotion of his own, but any further comment was halted by a swift and efficient RAMC officer who had commanded stretcher bearers into action before Wilson could summon the energy to protest.

Bandaged and exhausted, Wilson returned to the lodging house he shared with House in the late evening. He had been released with a sling for his arm and instructions to rest and was, for the first time, glad of the officers' privilege of sturdy walls and comfortable beds. He could not have faced a tent right now. Greg, he remembered, had been reluctant to leave his side and had practically had to be dragged away so Wilson was not surprised to find him pacing. He was, however, surprised when House stopped in his tracks and fixed him with such a look of intent that he was frozen to the spot, unable to react even as House had seized him by the arms with a contradictory mixture of ferociousness and care. So tender was the latter that despite James's recent injury his gasp was one of surprise, not pain. Greg did not know this and, taking the sharp inhale as an indicator that he had inflicted discomfort, he set Wilson down with an expression that would have been read, on the face of any man other than Greg House, to be an indicator of guilt. "I..." Greg swallowed hard; Wilson observed the rise and fall of his Adam's apple with a strange detachment, "I'm sorry." The words were forced and so foreign coming from those lips that Wilson almost asked him to repeat the idiom. There was no mistaking it however, as Wilson realised the aptness of the paradigm 'the eyes are windows to the soul.'

Seconds passed, oppressive silence shrouding them in its choking cloak until one of them, surely, had to break, had to speak, had to... Before any more time could elapse House was upon James once more, his touch firm and tender on back and chin, tilting his head until their lips met. Wilson had time to think that this was not the kind of contact of which his parent's- or indeed society in general- would approve before the rug of taboo was swept from under his feet and there was nothing in the world but Greg; nothing but firm muscles beneath fingers and fiery kisses, first on lips, then on neck and onwards, each new addition building to a deeper ecstasy than the young medical student turned wounded soldier could ever previously have imagined. He did not object as slowly, diligently- and, dare he think?- _worshipfully_, his clothes were removed; nor could he find the words to consent as House looked at him in askance. It was all he could do to nod in awed bewilderment as Greg's mouth descended upon his flesh once more- doing things he hadn't known possible- and his world exploded into glittering fragments of light and flame.


End file.
